by Karen Brooks
I looked from the hops back to the captain. “Maybe I could experiment . . .”
“Ja,” he said. “You should.” Returning to his seat, the captain drained the last of his drink. “Take that.” He waved at the sack on his desk. “I’ve more. It’s only a small amount. I will give you some beer to take with you as well. You can taste it, do some tests with the hops. If you wish, I can bring more back from Germany when I return in late December. But trust me when I say, if you learn to brew with hops”—he opened his palm to reveal what was nestled in there—“make a beer that the English will like and which you can sell beyond your shores, you won’t only be able to provide for your family, you’ll become a wealthy woman.”
My heart filled with hope and my fingers closed around the herbs, the fragile pieces of green that could represent my future, my fortune. Then doubt hit me. “And if I can’t?”
Captain Stoyan gave me a stern look. “Your name may be Sheldrake, but the blood of the de Winters, of your Dutch and German ancestors, flows strong in you. There is no such thing as ‘can’t.’”
I rose to my feet. “You’re right, Captain. If my mother was alive, she would tell me the same thing.”
“But she is not,” said Captain Stoyan, his face downcast. “And it’s left to me to remind you.”
I held out my hand and he came around the desk and took it. “And for that, Captain, I’m beyond grateful.”
Arm in arm, the captain and I left his office a short time later, he carrying the sack and two jugs of beer. The men glanced at us as he escorted me through the warehouse, along the dock, and back to where Will and Shelby waited. Helping me mount the cart, he placed the sack in my lap and the jugs at my feet. If my presence at the pier was the source of gossip, I was oblivious. My mind was filled with what lay ahead, with the potential of Captain Stoyan’s gift—not merely the hops, but what he would say to the abbot.
For now, I would push thoughts of the abbot to the back of my mind. I’d work to do, ale to perfect, and, when I was ready, a small sack of hops with which to experiment.
Eleven
Holcroft House
One week later
The year of Our Lord 1405 in the sixth year of the reign of Henry IV
A week after I had been to see Captain Stoyan, he came to Holcroft House. I’d finished work in the brewery for the day and was in the office with Adam, tallying up the accounts. Though I was delighted to see him, I knew the reason for his visit. I’d been expecting to hear from him. What I hadn’t anticipated was that he’d come in person, nor so late. It was as though a little pulley was tugging at my heart, causing me simultaneous pain and excitement. I welcomed him and waited in nervous silence as Iris brought a tray. Disheveled and thirsty from being on the road, the captain took the proffered ale and sat opposite me, looking about with interest.
“You’ve made some changes,” he said as Iris, in a flurry of skirts and curtsies, scurried out, closing the door with a last glance toward us. The kitchen would be full of surmise.
I followed the direction of the captain’s gaze. For certes, I’d rearranged Father’s things, but since Hiske had also taken some, I’d found other objects to fill the gaps—a few books, my favorite quill, and a small painting Mother had given me for my fifth birthday. In a flight of fancy, I’d placed a row of silver-banded mazers atop the mantelpiece. Saskia had seen to it the room was polished to shiny perfection now it was being used regularly. I’d also opened the shutters and lit a number of candles to admit more light. The fire in the hearth added its own special glow. It was a different space.
“A few.” I smiled.
Pretending to fuss over the captain’s cloak and hood, but really giving me respectability by acting as a chaperone, Adam first loitered then gave up all pretense and stood by the fire, arms crossed. The way the muscle in his cheek pulsed, I knew he was keen to hear the captain’s news.
“I took a ride out to St. Jude’s today,” said Captain Stoyan finally.
Closing the ledger slowly, I sucked in my breath. “And?”
“Let us say, neither the ale-conners nor the guild will trouble you for now.”
“For now. The abbot said that.”
“In not so many words. It was more what he implied.” He ran fingers through his windswept hair, taming it into submission. “To be frank, Mistress Anneke, Master Barfoot”—he turned slightly to include Adam—“I may have underestimated him. He’s not what I anticipated. Not at all. Where some men issue orders in loud voices, deliver threats of God’s punishment and their own, this man ensures compliance with smiles and silence—smiles that never reach his eyes and silences more deep and deadly than the Baltic in winter.” Reaching for his drink, he swirled it a couple of times. When he’d taken a long swallow, pulling a face, he continued. “He offered me wine, Rhenish no less. It was poured into a goblet with so many jewels decorating the stem it would fund a voyage to Muscovy and back. It was just one of many in the room. So much wealth and all very deliberately on display. There were gold platters, silver chalices, a bejeweled cross gleaming on the wall behind his velvet-and-ermine-clad shoulders.” He shook his head. “His room reeked of money. Ja, I answered the wrong calling when I chose the sea.” With a half-laugh, he drank again. I exchanged a glance with Adam, whose frown had deepened.
The fire crackled. Outside, the sounds of a cart rumbling past and the conversations of passersby formed a faint counterpoint to our conversation.
“Anyway, I told him in no uncertain terms what would happen should he interfere with your business.”
“What did he say?”
“Say? Everything and, thus, nothing. He’s a shrewd man, with more cunning than a hawker, and more canny than a Venetian moneylender.”
“How can one say everything and nothing?”
“It happens all the time, liebchen. Oh, he gave me the assurances I asked for, said the right things, made the right noises. When I first began, he acted as if I’d delivered some terrible blow to his pride, to the friary’s. When I mentioned the ale-conners and the guild, the well-known interference with ale production in Elmham Lenn and farther, he blanched, he couldn’t hide that. But he quickly recovered. Where I expected wrath and denial, he quietly played the role of the injured party.”
I glanced at Adam. “But he didn’t deny it?”
“Deny? Nein. He said it was a terrible misunderstanding. He said the friary was the victim of slander, no more, no less. He spoke of the sins of those who sought to denigrate and defame and how God would be their judge. He told me how the brothers prayed for the souls of these trespassers daily. It was quite a sermon. Practiced, assured.”
“Oh, the abbot is that,” I added, remembering the times I’d heard him deliver mass in town.
“I can’t help but feel he’s had to say these things before, to others.” The captain shrugged. “I might be wrong, but the man was prepared. After a drink or two, whereby he shared with me the history of the friary and the changes that had been wrought under his watch, he told me there was no need to worry, let alone alert the Hanse. He was most insistent on that last point. For just a moment, his guard slipped and I saw that he was genuinely worried, that he’d never anticipated our interest.” Captain Stoyan grinned. “Other than that, he smiled, nodded, performed benevolence with ease. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear he was innocent. That in good faith, the friary makes its ale and everyone purchases it because that’s what they desire to drink.”
Adam made a noise.
“Do you believe him?” I asked.
The captain looked at me as if I’d suggested he dine on parchment. “I may be thought reckless, but I’m no fool. Would you buy this”—he lifted his mazer—“if you had a choice? Exactly. The man is not to be trusted. Especially not when he said he welcomed competition, a new brewer in town. He even went so far as to say he would like to try your ale when it’s ready.”
Adam made a scoffing noise. “Try and copy it.”
“Ja. This w
as my thought too.” The captain rubbed his chin. “The entire time I was in his presence, his obedientiaries, his office-bearers, four of them, interchangeable in their black robes, two with their faces disguised by heavy cowls, the others with their tonsured heads, stood to one side murmuring, tut-tutting, coughing and gasping like a chorus of consumptive angels. If they hadn’t been so caught in this man’s spell, blinded by his loquaciousness and manner, they would have been funny. As it was, they too are dangerous. They will do whatever this man bids.”
“You think he’s dangerous?”
“Nein. I know he is. I’ve seen his sort before. He comes from the wrong side of the blanket, a noble’s bastard who feels the world owes him something and he’ll claim it whatever it takes. He is a greedy man. The friary is his empire, his world, and he will take down anyone who threatens it.”
“Even me?”
“You’re a woman; as far as he’s concerned, you’re no threat to him or any man. But the Hanse . . . Well, we’re another matter altogether. I’ve invoked their specter—worse, you have, and he doesn’t like that.”
“Are you concerned?”
“For me? What can he do to the Hanseatic League? He’ll be furious, his pride will be hurt, and I’ve no doubt someone will pay, but it won’t be us.” He regarded me steadily.
“Well, then, I’d best get my first batch of ale ready for sale, hadn’t I?” My cheer rang as false as my bravado.
“I think you should reconsider your plans, Mistress Anneke,” said Adam, taking a step toward the desk, placing his hand upon the wood. “I don’t like the sound of this abbot.”
I stared at him in dismay; fear darkened his eyes. Not now, Adam. Please, I need you to stand by me as you did over a week ago.
“What’s the alternative, Adam?” My tone was sharper than I intended. “Working for Hiske? Watching Karel become an apprentice somewhere and Betje little more than a servant to do her bidding? That is, until she’s sent to a nunnery for the rest of her life.” I shook my head. “I can’t allow that. Brewing has been in my family for centuries. It’s what de Winters do; it’s how my grandfather earned and kept his office with the Hanse. It’s how we made our living and, God willing, it’s how I am going to as well.”
“But is God willing?”
“God is. It’s Abbot Hubbard who’s not.”
“She’s right, Master Barfoot.” The captain rose, draining his mazer as he did. “Anyway, this isn’t about God, this is about something and someone much more earthbound, no matter how he styles himself. This is about the abbot, and while he won’t like it, he won’t be able to stop Anneke either.”
I could have kissed the captain there and then.
Placing the cup down on the desk, the captain gestured for Adam to pass his cloak and hood.
I rose, running my hands down the sides of my tunic. “Thank you, Captain Stoyan. Thank you. Now I can throw myself into this business without worrying about being sabotaged every step of the way.”
With Adam’s help, the captain shrugged on his cloak.
“Forgive me, sir, but Mistress Anneke, I wouldn’t be so quick to thank the captain.” Adam smoothed Captain Stoyan’s cloak, then stepped to one side to face us both. “Hasn’t it occurred to either of you that until the captain went to the friary and spoke to the abbot, he’d never heard of Anneke Sheldrake? Now, despite his assurances, which you yourself admit, Captain, are fairly meaningless, he’ll be watching you like a hawk, waiting until he can strike.”
Adam was right. I hadn’t thought of that. I cast a look of concern at the captain.
“Ja, Master Barfoot is right.” He tugged his hood into place. “But consider this: until I went to the friary, the abbot didn’t know how great the might of the Hanse was either. He might watch you, Mistress Anneke, but I’ll be watching him—wherever I am in the world, I’ll be watching him . . .”
“Until he moves out of sight.” Adam’s tone was dry, skeptical.
Captain Stoyan poked him in the chest with a thick finger. “Then it will be up to you, Master Barfoot, to keep Mistress Anneke under observation. Ensure she’s safe.”
Adam nodded. “Very well. So be it.”
Eager to put an end to this discussion and banish the demons plaguing my plans, I thanked the captain again and escorted him to the door. He was about to mount his horse when, as an afterthought, he turned.
“By the way”—he placed a hand on my shoulder—“I’ve spoken to Master Bondfield. Whatever barley you require will be paid for by me.”
Rendered speechless by this unexpected act of generosity, I froze, my hand resting on the horse’s smooth withers.
“It’s my investment,” he muttered, embarrassed, fiddling with the bridle. “I expect a share of the profits—in ale, and later beer, of course.”
A light rain began to fall, mingling with the ribbons of mist that slowly descended. Casting propriety aside, I threw my arms around him and kissed him soundly on the cheek. Red-faced, he returned my embrace and patted my back. When I drew away, I could see he was enormously pleased with my reaction.
“It will be all right, liebchen. Forget the abbot, forget the friary, and go make some liquid magic.”
“I will,” I said. But as I waved farewell, I knew that for the next few days, if not weeks, I would be looking over my shoulder. Despite the captain’s reassurances, I couldn’t forget the abbot so easily.
Twelve
Holcroft House
Late October to three days past the Nones of November
The year of Our Lord 1405 in the sixth and seventh years of the reign of Henry IV
Making sure the haircloth that lined the bottom of the kiln was in place before loading more coal, Adam stood back and wiped his hands on his apron. “Perforce, this is hot work,” he said, grinning to indicate he took no displeasure in the task. It was a cold, dreary day and the brewhouse, with its raging kiln and crackling stove, was a most agreeable space.
I flashed him a smile, my eyes fixed on glowing coals and the newly sprouted barley we’d painstakingly collected off the malthouse floor, laid upon large perforated trays, and slid into the kiln so they could be dried. Over the past few days, tray after tray of moist grain had been slowly and carefully fired. The latest sat upon a table nearby, golden, divested of its little green shoots, the steamy haze surrounding it dissolving as the cool air grabbed the heat and swallowed it. Tasting the grain to ensure it was cured correctly, I found the buttery, nutty flavor lingered pleasantly in my mouth. Before long it would be cool enough to pour into sacks to go to the mill for grinding.
Louisa and Blanche had collected heather from the moors behind the church, and I picked some up. First shaking the white powder from the fronds onto a piece of fabric so I could save it to use as an additive later, I threw it in the flames. The kiln smoked fiercely for a few seconds, forcing Adam and me to back away. Fast consumed, the dry heather released a sharp smell that caught in the back of the throat. Turning slightly to cough into my fist, it struck me how the brewhouse, now a veritable hive of activity, was unrecognizable from the bleak space it had been only weeks earlier.
Adam, Will, Iris when she could be spared, Saskia, and I, and even Louisa and the twins, had done nothing but work from dawn until dusk for days. Making larger quantities of ale required more hands than had once made the household’s supply. What I also discovered was that six years is a long time between brews. Unpracticed with the stages, determined to follow my mother’s recipes lest I make a mistake, I commenced slowly. Flopping into bed at night exhausted and filled with self-doubt, I prayed to not only the Virgin and my Lord Jesus Christ, but also (may God forgive me) to the Sumerian goddess of brewing, Ninkasi.
Ninkasi was a beautiful goddess from ancient times, and Mother had taught me the hymn brewsters in the Low Countries, Germany, and other parts of the continent sang to her to ensure the ale became yeasty and rich. Sometimes we’d even call upon Hathor, the Egyptian goddess of drunkenness, but Mother warned we were on
ly to invoke her for very special occasions. I wondered if our first ale would warrant Hathor’s help and decided it would, so, when the opportunity presented itself, I summoned her presence as well.
Barely stopping for meals, throwing down a piece of bread, some cold rabbit or eel, depending on the day of the week, the entire household committed fully. We had to—our livelihoods and the roof over our heads depended on it. There was an undertow of desperation to all we did, an unspoken fear of failure.
By the end of the first two weeks, when the first batch of grain was dried and ready to go to the mill, we had found a rhythm. Preparing the malt became a matter, over ten days, of tossing the grain across the now-clean and better-lit floor of the malthouse and watching it fall like a brief shower of rain. Soaking the barley in the crystal waters we’d drawn from the nearby stream, the Nene, it spread over the floor, a slow-moving marsh settling against its earthen banks. Bare-footed engineers, we’d lean on our tools and watch our muddy demesne form around our ankles. As the hours and days passed, we used the rakes and shovels to prevent the roots from fastening to the floor and each other, our backs and shoulders aching. Keeping the kiln and stove burning constantly, within days a fresh field of tiny green shoots sprouted and we became farmers rejoicing in our crop. Scooping up the new life, we layered it onto the large trays that went into the kiln. This was the point at which the previous hard work could easily come undone. If the temperature was too high and the grains burned, the ale was ruined before it was made. Likewise if the heat was too low. Mother had taught me how to ensure the fire burned slowly but consistently, waiting until the grains transformed into a mixture of amber or the color of the sandstone rocks that swept the bay, before swiftly removing them.